


Hello From the Other Side

by DarthNickels



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Bodyswap, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:45:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5671423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren is destined to take up the mantle of Vader. The Force can be incredibly literal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Izzy the Hutt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/izzythehutt/pseuds/izzythehutt) for being an incredible brainstormer

“Please,” he whispered, raggedly. “ _Please_.”

Kylo Ren knelt just as he had so many times before, head bowed. The sightless eyes of his grandfathers masked stared back at him-- silent, implacable, _judging_. Finding him _wanting_.

“Just tell me _how_!” He shouted, surging to his feet. “I’m ready, grandfather! Can’t you see? What more must I do? I’m _ready_ to finish the Jedi!” Fury blossomed in his heart, raging pulsating behind his eyes, in his teeth.

He’d given too much for this-- for the echoing, aching silence…

“ _ANSWER ME_!” he screamed, “show me how! I want to take up your burden-- preserve your _legacy_ \--“ there was a sudden tightness to his throat, a prickle of angry tears in his eyes--

“I _want_ to be good enough! Just show me how to _be_ like you!”

The Dark Side leapt into his grasp, coursing through him, and he blindly reached out in the Force, wrapping his perception around the twisted metal--

And everything was dark.

* * *

 

Kylo’s eyes fluttered open. The world was red. He groaned, but the sound was drowned out by a grating, mechanical noise. He started, slid sideways, and fell to the floor with an earth-shattering _crash_.

He tried to gasp--

He couldn’t _breathe_ \--

He seemed suspended there, for a long moment, panic overtaking him, before air was forced into his lungs, so suddenly he nearly gagged on it. It was forced out again with equal violence, and before he could recover the cycle repeated itself again. He lay there, trying to stifle his panic, failing miserably, while the harsh sound of his own breath seemed to bring him closer and closer to madness.

 _What happened_ \--?

He tried to get to his feet and couldn’t. He felt so _heavy_. He rolled slightly, planting his hands against the floor and _strained_ \-- but to no avail. He settled for lying on his side, wheezing, trying to take in as much of the forced air as he could. _What **happened** to me_? he thought, dazed _. I feel like I was crushed by an AT-AT…_

 He blinked, but the red wouldn’t go away. He reached up, irritably, trying to rub his eyes--

He couldn’t. He blinked, stupidly, until he realized he was wearing his helmet. _Something’s wrong with my HUD_ , he thought, and reached for the release clasps along his jawbone.

He couldn’t find them.

Kylo shut his eyes, tried to take a deep breath-- couldn’t-- let the machine breathe for him-- tried to stay calm, tried to keep his hands from shaking as he ran them all along the contours of the strange helmet, trying to push aside the mounting panic in his thoughts: _this isn’t mine this isn’t mine THIS ISN’T MINE--_

His hands scrabbled uselessly against the helmet for purchase and he found it he pulled, he pulled as hard as he could but nothing happened, he was -

Trapped--

Kylo stopped flailing and lay on the floor, as still as he could. Something was wrong. Something was _unimaginably_ wrong with him. He _hurt_ \-- he hurt all over, everywhere he could think of. He couldn’t _breathe_. He a knot of panic forming in his stomach, his heart sped up--

“Lord Vader!” He heard a voice call. It sounded distant, as though he were underwater. “Lord Vader!”

 _Grandfather_ , he thought, confusedly, _but who--? Why--?_

“Lord Vader!” the call sounded more urgent, accompanied by a rapid knocking. “Please, your presence is requested--“

Kylo was struck by an idea-- an idea too insane, too preposterous to even be close to an answer. It was not-- not feasible, not possible in any way, he was not--

“Lord Vader--“

“ _Go away_!” the rumbling bass couldn’t hide the note of terror in his voice. The knocking stopped.

“Milord? I--“

“Go away!” Kylo repeated, frantically. “Leave me alone!”

“Y--yes, milord,” the voice said, and Kylo heard the sound of quickly retreating boots. He rolled over, managing to bring his knees under him and putting his hands against the floor once again. He took a moment to study them-- larger than his own, clad in black synthleather. He sat back on his knees, somewhat unsteadily, and then fell forward again, gasping at the searing pain in his mid-thigh. Something occurred to him; managed to rise again, wincing at the pain, and steadily, shakily pull one of the gloves off. He stared down in a kind of dull disbelief at the skeletal prosthetic, gleaming durasteel and exposed wires--

 _Not at all like Uncle Luke’s_ \--

He shoved that thought away and yanked the other glove off, revealing an identical, inhuman hand. Kylo closed his eyes, and counted slowly to ten.

When he opened them, everything was the same.

“G-grandfather?” he asked, quietly. The vocoder masked how small he felt.

“Grandfather?”

Once again, there was no response.

* * *

 Vader’s eyes snapped open. He knew immediately that something was wrong-- both with his person and his surroundings. He lay perfectly still, for one long, slow breath--

 _It doesn’t hurt_ \--

\--before ascertaining there was no immediate danger. He leapt to his feet, scanning the room-- small, bare, similar to many quarters onboard the Executor-- but it wasn’t _his_. How had he gotten here? How foolish would his enemies be, to simply move him from his own quarters to similar surroundings. His hands were not even restrained--

Vader stared down, feeling the numbing effect of shock settle against on his consciousness. These-- were soft, pale, _flesh_ \--

Stupidly, he touched one to his face, clumsily running down an expanse of unmarred skin and features didn’t recognize.

 _Why_?

**_How?_ **

Important questions-- but not the most immediate. He needed to-- regroup. If he was not-- in his _body_ \-- it was likely he wasn’t in his ship. Before he could panic, he needed to return to the fleet. Fortunately, the Force was with him-- he drank it in, like a lungful of air (which he similarly indulged in), closing his eyes and reaching out-- perhaps his master would know what had become of him…

Vader reached out to Sidous, stretching his senses further and further--

But he grasped only empty air.

 _Master?_ He asked. _Master?_ He called, again and again, his entreaties growing ‘louder’ the more deafening the silence in return-

 _You’ve got to calm down_ , a voice whispered. Vader flinched in surprised from the brilliance of the light that accompanied it. _Your master can’t hear you-- but you’re going to give_ me _a headache. Can I help you?_

“Luke?” Vader asked aloud. It was highly unusually for his son to make any kind of contact with him, after the disaster at Bespin.

 _I-- Father_?!

Vader felt a curl of dark satisfaction roll through him. _So you have finally accepted the truth_. 

_Of course I did! But-- I mean-- you’re Vader!_

That was strange. Of course he was. Vader ignored it. _In time you will accept that. Forget Kenobi’s lies-- you must join me, my son. Join me and--_

 _Father, listen!_ Vader’s lip curled in annoyance, but he allowed his son to ‘speak’.

 _Why are you contacting me now?_ Luke asked, shielding the emotion behind the words. Vader snorted.

 _I haven’t stopped trying to reach you since Bespin,_ Vader thought, irritably. The boy was stronger than he had anticipated-- he picked up on the thought.

 _You-- oh. Oh_. Vader felt shock over their bond, quickly muted. _Wow_. _Where are you now?_

Vader looked around the room again, the circumstances of his awakening returning to him. _I…am unsure. I am not--_ he looked down again that the foreign hands _\--as I should be_. He felt Luke’s question, and tentatively shared what he saw along their bond.

 _How is that possible?_  Luke seemed even more shocked than he had been _. In all my research, I’ve never--_

 _There are many things unknown to the Jedi_ , Vader sneered, though nothing in his teachings from Sidious had prepared him for this, either.

 _We-- we need to meet_ , Luke said, firmly. _Can you get to a ship?_

Vader rolled his eyes. Luke seemed to sense to the sentiment. _Fine, just-- do so. Quickly. Try not to talk to anyone, if you can help it_. Vader got the impression of a planet, swirled in mists, a set of coordinates-- ah, Dagobah. It was known to him.

 _You might…hear some things…_ Luke trailed off. _Please, whatever they tell you, come to me._

_My son, so power in the Galaxy could stop me._

He felt an outpouring of emotions-- too many, too fast to fully comprehend-- and Luke cut the connection. Vader felt something like sadness at the sudden darkness brought on by the absence of his son.

 _Focus_ , he told himself. He would need his wits about him to escape whatever trap he’d somehow stumbled into and find his son. He’d need a weapon. Failing that, needed to know himself-- what was on his person; what he was now _capable_ of. Perhaps…

There was no mirror in the small room-- it was impossible to say what he actually _looked_ like. Not that he cared-- vanity was a foible for those without real power. But he found it-- vaguely unsettling, not knowing. There was only so much he could learn from running his hands over his face-- marveling at the feeling of real skin against skin--

 _Focus_.

He had hair-- it was just long enough to draw a lock before his eyes, black and curly. That was unusual, but the knowledge served no purpose. He did not seem to be wearing armor, though there was a belt-- with a lightsaber hanging from it. He smiled-- the Force was with him yet.

His smile vanished, however, upon unclipping the lightsaber. It was-- _barely_ serviceable. _Not even the most incompetent of younglings_ \-- his thoughts skittered away from the idea of younglings as he turned the half-finished saber over in his hands.  It was preposterous. He felt reluctant to turn it on, lest it explode in his hands.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers. He could work on it while in route to Dagobah-- there was room for improvement, but even he wasn’t a miracle worker.

Vader clipped the lightsaber to his belt-- or rather, the belt he was wearing-- once again, when someone on the floor caught his eye. He knelt, turning the twisted hunk of metal over in his hands--

                And nearly dropped it. It-- this was his mask, dulled and warped by some unknown inferno, staring back at him with empty eye sockets, a grim tiding from the grave. His blood ran cold in his veins, and his hand shook-- he couldn’t really say why he felt so afraid, staring at the melted wreck of the visage he’d only caught flashes of in transparisteel viewports or reflected for an instant in chromium plating, but for a moment the fear ruled him. He wanted to throw it to the ground, smash it to pieces, get it _away_ from him--

                No. The realization settled on him like a cloak. This-- was important. Why, he could not say, but the helmet was coming with him. He tucked it beneath his arm, carefully, and turned to the door.

                He paused, tilting his head to the side. For a moment-- as strange as it seemed, for a moment, he’d thought he’d heard a voice calling _grandfather_.

                He shrugged, ignored it, and palmed the lock.

* * *

                 “Lord Vader?” the voice at the other side of the door was back, more urgent than ever. “Please, Lord Vader, the matter is _urgent_.”

                Kylo managed to lever himself to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height. It was-- disorienting, even without the ache in his lower joints. He was _almost_ as tall as grandfather, which pleased him, but not exactly-- there was enough difference to make him feel out of sorts. He took one shaky, experimental step, then another, and was able to palm open the door with minimal fumbling. He stared down at the mousy, unassuming man before him-- wearing the light grey (or so he assumed) and peaked cap of the Imperial Navy. Kylo suppressed a wholly inappropriate thrill of excitement.

                “What is it--“ he paused, glancing down at the rank badge on the man’s chest, “--Admiral?” It was fortunate that he’d taken the time to study the intricacies of Navy dress.

                “It’s the Emperor, Milord,” the man looked up at him, his face severe but touched with genuine dread. “He has been unable to reach you, and requests your presence by holo-transmission-- rather urgently.”

                Kylo curled his hands into fists, trying to contain a surge of nervous excitement. The Emperor! The Emperor wanted to speak to him! Well-- to Darth Vader, but Kylo had been sent here, to this time and place, for a reason-- he could feel it in his bones.

                “Good,” he said. The Admiral raised a confused eyebrow, and he realized that Vader probably didn’t say things like ‘good’. “Ah-- Very well, Admiral,” he tried again. “Lead the way.”

                The admiral’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You want me to-- accompany you there, milord?”

                Kylo felt his lip curl in a scowl. “That is what I said, is it not?”

                “I-- of course, Lord Vader. Right this way,” The man didn’t even bother to hide his curiosity, shooting a questioning look over his shoulder. Kylo couldn’t even congratulate himself on his quick thinking, he was so irritated. He set off after Piett, his long legs easily matching the shorter man’s stride, but quickly started to flag-- they _hurt_ \--

                “My lord?” Piett looked at him, concerned. “Are you…limping?”

                “Or course not!” Kylo snapped . “Eyes front!”

No wonder his grandfather was forced to remove such men from his command with infamous frequency-- he has tempted to try it himself, if the admiral forgot his place again.

* * *

 

Vader stopped outside his door and paused. The scene wouldn’t have been out of place onboard the Executor, except it was subtly wrong. The stormtroopers’ masks, the cut of the uniforms-- nothing was right. Where was he? Some outpost his master had kept secret even from him?

 The corridor was well-traveled, with stormtroopers and petty officers alike walking brusquely past him, but none seemed to pay him much notice. He saw them glance at him then look away quickly, perhaps picking up the pace as they did so. He wasn’t a prisoner, then. Convenient, but puzzling-- he shrugged it off. He opened himself to the Force, trusting that it would lead him to a ship.

“Ren!” Someone was shouting. “Ren! Blast it all-- REN!”

 _He means me_ , Vader realized. He stopped, turning, reigning in his anger at being called like a dog. He was met by a man in a black parody of an Imperial dress uniform, flanked by the tallest stormtrooper he’d ever seen, decked in brilliant chromium. Vader blinked in surprise, then quickly schooled his expression-- there was no mask for him to shelter behind.

“Speak,” he said. The voice that came out of his lips was clear, and _soft_ \-- he almost started to hear it.

                “You will _not_ order me to speak!” the man hissed, his pale cheeks turning a muddled red, similar to his hair. “You are not the commander on this ship, Ren-- I am!”

                Vader raised an eyebrow. Ordinarily, the man would not have been allowed to finish his sentence before Vader lifted him off his feet and threw him into a wall for daring to speak out of turn. But something had softened him-- perhaps it was the strangeness of his circumstances, or the lack of pain, or contact with his son--but the stars were aligned in this man’s favor.

                “Very well. What is it?”

                The man stopped, mouth slightly open, and stared at Vader in surprise, as if he had anticipated a much less reserved response. Vader held his ground, committing to the bluff. It worked-- the man shook himself, and went on:

                “You’re _supposed_ to be getting ready to lead the landing party. Go back and put your helmet on-- why do you even have it off? We depart in less than an hour.”

                For a moment, Vader was tempted to apologize and fall in line with whatever campaign he was supposed to be undertaking. He felt strong, _better_ than strong, he felt whole and alive and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to take this faulty lightsaber and see what he could do--

                Luke’s face rose unbidden in his mind’s eye. _Another time_ , he promised himself.

                “I won’t be joining the landing party,” Vader said, with a note of genuine regret. “I have other orders--“

                “What? I’ve heard nothing from the Supreme Leader!”

                “Perhaps he did not see fit to waste his time telling us both,” Vader shrugged. “Do you question the will of the Supreme Leader?”

                The red-haired man nearly went purple. “You know very well--“

                “Our landing strategy relies on your presence, Kylo Ren,” the chrome-plated trooper interrupted, coldly. “Leaving now puts my men at great risk-- especially if the resistance scum have a Jedi with them...”

                “There are no Jedi here, Captain,” he said. “Show me the schematics.” With captain glanced at the officer, then pulled a small holodisk from her belt. Vader called it to his free hand with the Force and flipped through the images with his thumb. The Force was with him yet again.

                “Antex IV is riddled with tunnels left by the extinct kratorrns,” he said, “the cliff-face here, in particular-- enter on the southwest side and make your approach on foot. It should only take eight hours, and you’ll surprise the rebels foolishly camped here at the bottom. My presence is not needed.” He dropped the holodisk back into the trooper’s armored glove as she stared at it, taken aback. He turned on his heel and strode away, taking full advantage of their shock.

                Phasma and Hux watched Vader go, flummoxed.

                “Has Ren been studying military maneuvers?” Phasma asked, as he watched the young Sith disappear around the corridor in swirl of cape.

                “No,” Hux’s eyes narrowed. “He’s never been to Antex IV, either. There’s something _off_ about him--“

                “Something different, in any case.” She titled her head back, considering. “It’s a welcome change. With further study he could take your place, if you aren’t careful.”

                If glares gave off real heat, she would be in danger of Hux melting a hole in her helmet.   

* * *

                Kylo paused at the door to secure communications, nervously drumming his fingers. “Admiral,” he said, pausing, “await my return.”

                “But-- I am needed on the bridge--“

                “Do as I say!” Kylo snapped, and turned sharply on his heel. The door slid shut, and there he was-- alone with the Emperor. Much like the Supreme Leader, the Emperor loomed large over him, his face shrouded in the cowl of his cloak. Kylo stopped dead, heart hammering in his chest.

                “Lord Vader,” the Emperor snarled. “You forget yourself.” Kylo paused, mind racing. What did he do? It had only been a few seconds, how could he have already made a misstep--?

                “I apologize for my tardiness,” he started, diplomatically, “I--“

                “I am not interested in your excuses!” Kylo didn’t quail-- not necessarily-- but he did shrink a little. The Emperor stared down at him with burning eyes. “ _Kneel_.”

                Kylo bristled-- _you can’t speak to me-- my **grandfather** that way_! but apparently, the Emperor could-- and _did_. He tried to go slowly to one knee, wincing at the searing pain the action caused. He could feel the Emperor’s eyes on him the whole time, and he felt all the clumsier for it.

                “There has been a great shift in the balance of the Force,” the Emperor said. Kylo dared to peak up at the hologram, but found his expression unreadable. “Have you sensed it?”

                _No-- I think it’s my doing_. “I have, Master.”

                “It could be the work of the son of Skywalker.”

                Kylo gritted his teeth. His uncle. They would be roughly the same age-- it was a strange thought. “Skywalker can do nothing,” he bit out, sharply.

                “Oh?” The Emperor titled his head back, his voice thick with condescension. “He escaped your grasp easily enough-- he continues to elude you, even with the might of the Imperial Navy at your command.”

                Kylo blinked in surprise. He had to fix this.

                “He has learned much,” he started, slowly. “But he is not a Jedi yet.”

                “Then you are continually bested by a padawan.” The Emperor shifted, leaning in closer. “Or perhaps something else is at work-- perhaps your sentiment is clouding your judgement, making you prey to _past weaknesses_.”

                Kylo raised his head. The Emperor was indeed far-sighted. Had he already seen what fate would befall his apprentice? How a moment of weakness would sweep away everything he had spent the past two decades building?

                _Perhaps_ , he thought excitedly, _it will not happen again. Perhaps-- I am in this place now, to--_

                “I will bring you Skywalker in due time,” he said aloud, “have patience.”

                He felt a sudden sharp pain in his head, like the pressure in the room had dropped drastically within a few seconds.

                “Lord Vader, do you chafe under my guidance?” the Emperor asked, his voice low and dangerous.

                “No, Master,” Kylo backpeddled, frantically, “I only--“

                “Do you think now, with a Super Star Destroyer at your command, you can challenge me?” the Emperor went on, his voice now laced with cold fury. “Have you decided you are a true Sith? Will you attempt to take the place of the master?”

                “I--“ Kylo’s head was reeling. “I merely meant--“

                “Be _silent_ ,” the Emperor hissed. The words were accompanied by a sudden, sustained burst of electricity that tore through Kylo’s body. He fell forward onto the holopad, writhing. The assault was finished as suddenly as it began.

                “I put you together, my apprentice,” Palpatine hissed, “do not forget how easily I can take you apart once again. You my contact me again after you have meditated on the cost of _overconfidence_.” 

                The Emperor’s hologram winked out, leaving Kylo lying in a darkened room, with only the sound of his breathing. Slowly, he curled his hand into a fist. He knew know what he had to do.

                He would eliminate his uncle as a threat-- he would win him to the Dark, just as Vader had failed to do.

                Then, he would kill the Emperor.

                “I will do what you could not, grandfather,” he said, scrabbling to his feet. He clenched his fist, hearing the creak of synthleather in his grip. “Palpatine will _fall_.”

                He turned, walking with new purpose to the door. He palmed the lock and it slid open--

                The small mousy admiral was there, his sidearm in his hand. Kylo felt his mind go blank as the muzzle was shoved, unceremoniously into his gut, forcing him to take a step back. The door slid shut again the two of them stood like that, Kylo staring down in dumb horror and shock.

                “You aren’t Lord Vader,” the man hissed.

* * *

 

                The wings of the strange shuttled folded as Vader easily made his descent into the primordial mists of Dagobah. There were only a handful of planets he would have liked less for their rendezvous, but given how poorly the last meeting with his son had gone…

                It was best not to dwell on it. Presumably Luke chose this location because he believed it granted him the upper hand. Let him believe it a while longer.

                Vader strapped the newly-repaired lightsaber to his hip-- there was only so much he could do, with a cracked kyber crystal (he didn’t know if he wanted to meet the original constructor to congratulate his luck or to slap him for even attempting such a thing) but it was-- less _overtly_ hazardous than before. He found himself fiddling nervously, smoothing down the front of his strange clothes as he waited for the ramp to lower-- it was foolish behavior. It was not his _appearance_ that had so upset his son, when he learned the truth…

                “What are you doing here?” a voice drew his gaze -- and Vader felt his mouth fall open in shock. It was Luke-- there was no doubt about it, the way the Force sang around him, but he--

                “You--“ Vader held back from running as he closed this distance between himself and Luke, but only just-- he stared down at his son’s face, ravaged as if by time, but that wasn’t possible- he had seen the boy, only three months before--  

                “What has _happened_ to you?”

                “It’s been a long time for both of us. You’ve changed, too.” His son looked tired, his face etched with lines of grief-- it reminded him, eerily, of Kenobi that day on the Death Star…

                “What do you want, Ben?” his son interrupted that train of thought, looking up at him with steely eyes.

                Vader’s brow furrowed

                “Who is Ben?”

                “Call yourself whatever you like,” Luke said, shaking his head. “Kylo Ren. Knight of the Dark Side. But I will never--“

                Vader had heard enough. He took Luke’s face in his hands-- marveling at the touch, unhindered by prosthetics or heavy synthleather, trying to take in as much of his Force-presence as he could.

                “My son,” he said, “You are speaking in riddles.”

                Luke stiffened, his eyes going wide-- Vader could see now, free of his mask, that they were a soft, familiar blue. “Father?!” he asked, in a strangled whisper. “But-- _how_ \--?”

                “I have no answers for you,” Vader cut him off. “I find it just as-- disorienting-- as you do, I can assure you.”

                “You _died_ ,” Luke said, in quiet disbelief. Vader tried to draw away at that, but Luke reached put and put his hand against Vader’s own. “And you-- you didn’t talk to me for years…”

                “My son, I am merely transformed,” Vader said, placing his hands on Luke’s shoulders. “I assure you, I am not _dead_.”

                “But you _are_ \--“ Luke cut himself off, staring up into Vader’s face as if searching for answers there. He stopped, blinking suddenly. “You have no idea, do you?”

                Vader felt taken aback. This situation seemed to escalate faster every second. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

                “You-- have _no idea_ whose body you’re in,” Luke released Vader’s grasp, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t _know_.”

                Vader withdrew his grasp and looked down at his hands. It was true, his circumstances were-- _drastically changed_ from what they had been less than a standard rotation ago. But it had not occurred to him that this body was not _his_ \-- that rather than being healed, or somehow altered, he had been--

                -- _transplanted_ \--

                The low roar of an engine cut through the haze that settled over his thoughts. He looked up and saw a large, ugly freighter settling into a landing only a few meters from where they stood. The _Millennium Falcon_.

                Vader felt his lip curl in disgust. The Falcon meant the Wookiee, and likely Calrissian…perhaps even the Princess. If that was all the reinforcements Luke had brought to meet him, he would be sorely disappointed in--

                “Father,” Luke drew his attention once again. He was looking at the Falcon, his face pale with a sudden realization. “Listen to me very, very carefully. What year do you think it is?”

                “It is the twenty-third year of the Emperor’s reign,” Vader replied, irately. Luke shook his head.

                “It’s been twenty seven years since the Battle of Yavin,” he said, urgently. “Twenty three since the fall of the Empire--“

                “The _what_ \--!”

                There were figures exiting the Falcon-- leaving at a dead run. Luke put his hand on Vader’s arm, squeezing.

                “Listen to me! You’ve been dead for twenty three years. The war is over.  You gave your life to save me--“

                “I--“ Vader’s head spun, woozily. What Luke was telling him was insane. Not in ten thousand years of Jedi or Sith study had such a thing occurred. It was simply _impossible_.

                 “Father, listen to me very, very carefully--“

                The figures were close now-- he had been right, the Wookiee was there, and with him, annoyingly, was none other than Han Solo. Carbonite freezing was not permanent, after all, it seemed as though his friends had come to his rescue. Solo stopped short, staring at Vader with a look he could not read.

                “Leia!” he called, never taking his eyes off Vader. “Leia, wait--“

                The Princess had aged, just as his son had, but her dark eyes were as sharp as ever. She didn’t break her stride as she barreled towards him, fixed on his face. Vader reached for his lightaber, but she hadn’t drawn her weapon yet--

                 The Princess skidded to halt at the very last second, staring up at him breathlessly. Something passed between them, so fragile and iridescent that even Vader hesitated to break the spell. Then, without warning, she took a step forward and grabbed him as high as she could around his middle.

                “ _Ben_ ,” she breathed. The word was halfway to a sob. “Ben. You came _back_.”

* * *

 

                “Of course I am!” Kylo protested. He reached for the blaster, but the admiral raised it and took aim at the blinking control box on his chest.

                He could easily deflect any blast-- couldn’t he? Could he afford the risk?

                “This is treason! I am Vader, and--“

                “No, you are _not_ ,” the man bit out, fiercely. “Lord Vader is _nothing_ but loyal to the Emperor.”

                 Kylo squeezed his eyes shut. Blast-- an unforgivable misstep on his part. “Admiral,” he said, “what you overheard is not--“

                “What’s my name?” the man interrupted him.

                “I--“

                “I was handpicked by Lord Vader to serve his fleet,” the man hissed, his eyes lit with righteous fire. “Lord Vader knows my _name_.”

                Kylo desperately tried to clamp down his panic. He wouldn’t lose to some self-important lackey with a blaster. He couldn’t. “Admiral--“

                “What have you done with the real Vader? Where is he?”

* * *

 

                Vader froze. The waves of warmth flooding out of Organa were-- uncomfortable, to say the least. He had been aware that she possessed some low-level of Force sensitivity, but how he felt enveloped in the strength of her affection.

                “Princess,” he said. This voice carried none of the authority of his vocoder-- he resented it immensely. “Release me.”

                “Don’t talk to her like that,” Solo barked, appearing over the Princess’ shoulder. He jabbed a long finger in Vader’s face. “Don’t you _talk_ to her like that, after all you--“

                “Han,” Luke said, his voice filled with anguish. “Leia. Please.” He ran another hand through his hair, looking for all the world as though he would rather scoop a handful of mud from the ground and eat than say his next words. “That isn’t Ben.”

                Vader felt the Princess’ grip loosen, but he wasn’t totally freed of her embrace. “I don’t care what you call yourself,” she said, looking up at him. “I don’t _care_ what he told you your name was, you are--“

                “Leia, _listen_ to me!” Luke pleaded. “That’s-- Ben isn’t _in_ there, right now.” The Princess looked between him and Luke, her relief slowly turning to grief.

                “It is true,” Vader said, severely. “I am-- a stranger to this form.”

                “What-- do you mean?” she asked. She reached up as far as she could, laying a hand against Vader’s face.  He couldn’t suppress a slight flinch at the touch.

“What does that mean?” The Princess demanded, anguished. “He _looks_ just like-“

                “This is Ben’s body,” Luke said, as though he hardly believed it himself. “But he’s not-- someone else is in it.”

                “Someone just scooped Ben out and-- hijacked him?” Solo demanded, breaking his silence. He turned and resumed studying Vader’s face, as though he could discern what had happened by sight alone. “How does that even _happen_?”

“Was it Snoke?” the Princess asked, her voice full of quiet fury. “Did he--?” 

                Luke held up his hands for peace. “I don’t know,” he said, quietly. “None of us know what’s going on. That’s why-- Leia, I need you to try and stay absolutely calm when I tell you who you’re talking to right now.”

                The Princess seemed truly lost. She looked back and forth between Luke and Vader; he could almost hear her thoughts whirring. “Who?”

                Luke came forward, laying a steadying hand on the Princess’ arm. “Leia,” he said, quietly, “I called you hear because I said I’d been contacted by my father.”

                There was a moment of complete silence. The Princess’ eyes flew wide with horror, all the blood draining from her face. She looked up.

                “Vader,” she said, her voice layered with shock-- and hate.

                “Princess,” he inclined his head. “It has apparently been some time.”


	2. Chapter 2

                “Where is he?” The Princess had grabbed a large handful of Vader’s tunic and was trying to pull him down to her level, her eyes wild with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. “What have you _done_ with him?!”

                “I know nothing more than you do--“ he protested, trying to pry her fingers from his tunic. He would be forced to break them if she didn’t relent. Behind her, Solo looked ashen face, almost trembling with rage, with only one outstretched arm holding back his wookiee compatriot, who seemed ready to tear him limb from limb.

“I can assure you, your _highness_ ,” Vader said, wrapping his strange, pale hands around her wrists, “even if such a thing as-- _this_ \-- were within my power, I would not--“

                “Shut up,” Solo’s voice was cold and tight, but still somehow raw. “You-- _shut up_. You _did_ this to him. You were the one who did this to him in the first place--“

                “Han, please,” Luke started, but Solo would not be deterred.

                “It’s his fault!” he shouted. “He was the one who _poisoned_ our son!”

                _Our son_. Several things neatly clicked into place in Vader’s mind. He looked down at the Princess, saw the wild desperation in her eyes, her grief--

                “He’s been obsessed with you since we first told him,” the Princess said. She stared up at him, unblinking. “You-- you _have_ to know--how he was fixated on you, and fulfilling your _legacy_ \--“ she spat the last word.

                Vader arched an eyebrow. “So the son of the rebel Princess and her mercenary understands the value of _order_ ,” he said, perhaps with a touch of self-satisfied cruelty. “Not all of your finest insurgent propaganda could turn him from the truth of the--“

                Luke’s cry of warning was cut off by the Princess’ hand landing on his face with a sharp _crack_.

                “Don’t you dare use his mouth to say those things to me,” she hissed. Vader put a hand to his face, unconsciously. The pain was sharp and fresh and totally alien to him.

 “Don’t you talk to me that way, wearing his face,” she went on, seething. The Force crackled dark fury around her. “Don’t. You. _Dare_.”

                 “Leia,” Luke put both his arms on the Princess’ shoulders, trying to comfort her, but she shrugged him off.

                “Did you know?” she demanded, turning to him. “Did you know it was him? How long has Vader been _possessing_ my son?”

                “Be at ease,” Vader cut Luke off, waving his hand dismissively. “I have been--“ he was at a loss for words, and gestured sharply to himself “-- for less than a standard rotation.”

                The wookiee moaned in confused frustration. Vader was sympathetic to his general sentiment.

                “But you were talking to him, right?” Solo seemed to have found his voice once again. His eyes burned, and he raised his chin in defiance. “You’ve been-- luring him, all this time. Talking to each other, with the Force, or whatever it is--“

                “Ridiculous,” Vader sneered. “What interest would I have in--“

                “What _interest_ \--?!”  The Princess started, but Solo’s outraged outweighed her own:

                “Don’t act like you don’t know!” he barked. He pushed past the Princess-- his lover-- and jabbed his finger dangerously close to Vader’s face, shouting “you couldn’t win Luke over with your evil schemes and so you tried the next best thing-- your _grandson_!”

                “My--“ Vader stopped short. He blinked once, twice. Silence fell over the clearing as the three of them waited for his reaction.

                His _what_?

                A grandson? But he-- he had only just learned of his _son’s_ existence. They were only standing before each other as father and son _now_ , for the first time since his birth. Their family was small and fragile, only the two of them in all of the Galaxy, and now-- a _grandson_. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea, yet the Force gently reverberated with its truth. Luke was-- well, he was a man now, but he was still a boy in many ways, and--

                “But…” he swung and looked at Luke, then Solo and the Princess in turn. “How is their child of any relation to me?”

                He saw the Princess’ eyes go wide, a flicker of horrified understanding coming to her. Solo took a step back to the Princess, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The wookiee placed an enormous paw on her elbow, gingerly, looking down at her with compassion. Luke stepped forward and took one of his hand in both of his own. He tried to project calm and soothing feelings, gentle waves that lapped in a futile effort against Vader’s mental shields.

                “Father,” he said, gently, tentatively, “Leia _is_ related to you. She…” he squeezed his eyes shut, taking a long, calming breath.

                “She’s a twin,” he said, the words falling out of him in a rush. “She’s _my_ twin. Leia is my sister. She’s your--“

                “Don’t say it,” Leia cut in, acidly, but Luke shook his head.

                “It’s the truth,” he said, “you accepted it long ago.” He turned back to Vader. His words were gentle, understanding, but they were primed to tear his world apart:

“Leia is your daughter.”

                Vader thought his new body had failed him-- something was crushing his lungs, his chest, covering his mouth. He turned, taking a step towards Organa, then another. He stared down at her like he’d never seen her before. The lines on her face obscured it, but the memory of her was fresh in his mind--the shape of her eyes, the defiant way she raised her chin, her long hair elaborately braided and--

He couldn’t take in any air, there was no air--

                “Twins?” he breathed.

* * *

 

                To anyone else things looked perfectly normal-- Darth Vader sweeping down the corridors of the Executor like a grim omen, an officer following a respectful half-step behind him, ready to receive the fleet’s marching orders. A keen-eyed observer may have noticed that Vader’s lightsaber no longer hung clipped to his belt-- instead, it was in the hands of the admiral, whose hand disappeared beneath Vader’s cape…

                “Keep walking,” he muttered, jabbing his blaster into the imposter’s back. Firmus Piett was not a particularly threatening man-- members of the Imperial brass seldom were. After all, there was little need for one to be physically imposing with the power of three Super Star Destroyers at your command. If that proved insufficient, one only needed to step aside and allow Lord Vader to make himself known.

                But when the chips were down, Piett was not a man to be trifled with. The fact that he’d risen to one of the highest positions in the Navy spoke to that-- as did the months he’d survived as Vader’s chosen admiral. He’d very literally stepped over his own predecessor’s body for the job, and he’d proven himself worthy of Lord Vader’s trust.

                “You’re making a mistake.” The words sounded unbelievably wrong coming from Vader-- the rumbling baritone was never meant for desperate pleading. “You have no idea--“

                “Quiet!” Piett hissed. He jabbed his blaster into Vader’s-- the _imposter’s_ back, allowing it to make the point for him. He was dimly aware of how badly his palms were sweating, but his grip on the weapon remained firm, his finger held away from the trigger-- for now.

                For all the air of mystery that surrounded him, for all the thousands of rumors that flew thick and fast amongst the rank-and-file of the Navy and members of the Imperial Court alike, Vader was not a difficult man to understand. One grew used to him, in close quarters. For all that he was mercurial in disposition and prone to sudden, inexplicable revelations from the ether, Vader could be _predictable_ , in his own way. Just like the violent thunderstorms on Kamino could be counted on to roll in and out in a deadly but reliable fashion, so Vader’s habits and preferences could be determined through careful observation. It was one’s own responsibility to mitigate the damage where one could, and get out of the way where one could not.

                It was easy, then, for Piett to realize when something was _wrong_ with His Lordship. One learned the nuances of Vader’s slow, rumbling intonation as a matter of survival-- one learned to recognize when he was coldly pleased, when he was overcome with fury, the rare times when his voice was tinged with something like resigned sadness. Vader had wider range of emotions than most knew, but fear was not one of them.

Piett had felt the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the sound of Vader’s quavering voice shouting _go away!_ It was…just _wrong_.  After all, Vader was famous for never shirking from duty. If there was one thing that earned Vader more enmity than his capricious temper and capacity for violence, it was the borderline fanaticism that characterized his devotion to the Empire…

                And its Emperor.

                “Open the door,” Piett hissed, and they mercifully rounded the corner to Vader’s personal wing. “Get inside.” The imposter obliged, almost meekly-- the sight of Vader _cowed_ , even if it wasn’t really Vader, made Piett’s blood boil even more than his intent to commit treason had. He’d never thought of himself as a man who was zealously patriotic, nor one particularly concerned with pomp and symbols, but there were things that he would not stand for, dammit!

                The door slid shut behind them and the imposter turned to face Piett, standing with his shoulders squared, arms at his side, hands curled into fists.

                “What do you think you’re going to do?” he demanded. “No one’s going to believe you. When they hear you tried to take me hostage--“

                “Shut up,” Piett ordered, crisply. He hated to admit that the imposter had a point-- no matter how bizarrely wrong Vader was acting, it was an quite a leap to assume that he had been replaced. Such a thing sounded impossible, but on further review seemed almost feasible. Find someone of a similar build, construct a facsimile of Vader’s famous armor and life support, smuggle it aboard…it was more surprising, in retrospect, that it had _not_ been tried before. Perhaps no one dared risk Vader’s wrath should he find out. But then, even if such an imposter _was_ found out, who would take the risk of angering a real Vader accused of impersonating himself?

                Piett, apparently. He’d heard what he’d heard. Though now he had no proof of that traitorous utterance other than his own memory…

                “I sense it, you know,” the imposter purred, with a confidence that matched Vader even if his cadence did not. “You can’t win this-- I am a forgiving man, Admiral, I can--“

                “Piett,” he ground out, raising his blaster again. “My name is _Firmus Piett_.” Another misstep: Lord Vader was many things, but _forgiving_ was not one of them.

                “As for what I’m going to do now-- “Piett’s thoughts raced as he searched for his next move. “I’m going to see the face of the man who dares impersonate the Supreme Commander.”

                Not-Vader stiffened. For a moment, the rattle of the respirator was the only sound in Vader’s sterile chambers.

                “Listen to me,” the man rumbled, “you-- you were right. I’m not Vader--“

                “Ah _hah_!”

“I’m not Vader,” he continued, ignoring Piett’s crow of vindication, “But if you kill this body--“ he stopped, fumbling for a moment, “if you kill _me_ , Vader will die as well.”

Piett took a step forward, blaster raised. “Where is he? With your rebel friends? How are you in communication with them? Do you--“

“I don’t know where Vader is!” the imposter shouted. He sounded-- strangely unsettled by the revelation. “But-- his _body_ …is still here.”

                Piett turned the bizarre statement over and over in is his mind.

                “Take the helmet off,” he ordered, deciding to ignore it.

                “Aren’t you listening to me? I _can’t_ \--“

                Piett flicked the safety on his blaster. “Take it off. _Now_.”

                The imposter turned, almost as if he was looking down and away in defeat. “I don’t know how.”

                Piett’s eyebrows shot up. “What kind of operation are you rebel scum running?”

                “I’m not _with_ any--“ the imposter let out what sounded like a growl of frustration, distorted through the vocoder. “I can’t do it. Just-- trust me.”

                Piett took one step sideways, then another, never taking his eyes or his weapon off his captive. He reached out, fumbling slightly, and managed to activate the controls on Lord Vader’s meditation chamber. The two halves of the great black sphere slid open with an ominous _hiss_.

                “Get in,” he ordered, gesturing sharply with his blaster.

* * *

 

                This wasn’t the worst day of Han Solo’s life-- that dubious honor still belonged to the day he realized Ben wasn’t coming home-- but it was definitely a stronger contender.

                 His son-- he was even taller than Han remembered (taller than his father now), the gawkiness of his features tempered by adulthood. He’d hidden those satellite dish ears by letting his dark hair grow long, and he was almost sickly pale, but it was _him_.

                Except it _wasn’t_ him.

Han didn’t pretend to understand Jedi business. He wouldn’t even believe in the Force if he wasn’t brother-in-law to the first Jedi of the New Order. He’d had something of a crash course during the last two decades, yes, but the finer points escaped him. He could have tried harder to learn-- he’d realized that on his own, standing in his son’s room and feeling like the emptiness would settle in his gut and never leave.  Maybe he could have seen what was _wrong_ before things got out of hand. Maybe he could have given Ben whatever it was that he wanted so bad that he’d run off to Snoke to get it.  

                He didn’t understand the Force. He didn’t understand his son. That was his fault.

                But _nobody_ seemed to understand what the hell _Vader_ was doing here.

                Han looked up at Ben’s face-- it was _Ben’s_ face, no matter who was wearing it-- trying to find some traces of his boy. The years had changed him, but not even Snoke could change Ben that much-- the cruel set to his mouth, the superior arch to his eyebrow, the coldness of his eyes-- that had to be Vader. Ben never stood like this, with feet shoulder-width apart, back ramrod straight, chest out, chin up. Han would have believed it was some sick joke, or that maybe his son had truly lost his mind and actually believed he _was_ his deranged grandfather, reincarnated somehow-- but then Ben’s head tilted in a way that made memories of Bespin-- capture, torture, the carbon freezing chamber, and then darkness-- come crashing back in.

                It was him.

                Han curled his hands into fists to keep from shaking.  How dare Vader come back-- he was _dead_. He’d taken and taken from them while he was alive, and he’d managed to keep taking even after he was gone-- for twenty years they’d lived in his shadow, lived with the scars he’d left on them, the poison he’d instilled in their son--

                And now, Vader was going to take the last thing Leia’s real father-- the Viceroy-- had left her. For all that Vader had done to her, taken from her, he’d never been able to use their connection-- an accident of genetics, fate, whatever-- against her. And now…

                “Twins,” Vader whispered. Han braced himself for the onslaught-- of what, he wasn’t sure. He saw Leia stiffen, and he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, shut out whatever Vader was going to say, shut out this whole situation--

                But General Organa was made of sterner stuff than he was. Leia stood there, chip uptilted, eyes blazing, waiting for whatever nonsense Vader would try to pull.  

                “I--“ Vader looked down, Ben’s lips slightly parted in confusion, brow furrowed, mind racing furiously. “Twins. It was _twins_.” Han felt an uncomfortable tendril of uncertainty worm its way into his gut. Ben looked so lost.

_It’s not Ben._

                Vader pulled himself free of Luke’s comforting grasp and took a hesitant, unsteady step towards Leia, and then another-- he reached out to touch her face, but at the last moment she slapped his hand away. Vader didn’t seem dissuaded by it-- he seemed to have fallen into some kind of trance, blinking rapidly, nostrils flaring.

                Chewie growled, fur bristling. _You and me both,_ Han thought _._

                “Father?” Luke asked, gently. He laid a hand on Vader’s arm. Vader turned to stare at him, his distress now obvious.

                It made Han uneasy—something about Vader being able to _make_ that face was just… _wrong_.

                “I _knew_ there was a girl,” Vader said, soft and dangerous. “I _knew_. And all this time…” he swung back to Leia, his eyes lit with a sudden flame, “you were _there_. Under my nose-- for twenty years--!” Han felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Leia went rigid-- she hadn’t spoken a word, but she met Vader’s eyes, daring him to keep going. Chewie took his paw off her arm and cocked his bowcaster.

                “Vader,” Han said, slowly. “Calm down.”

                But Vader ignored him. His eyes now blazing furiously, and his breathing heavy and fast. “Organa!” He shouted. “He stole you from me! He and Kenobi --!”

                “Protected me from you!” Leia shouted, finding her voice again. “They--“

                “THEY _STOLE_ YOU!” Vader bellowed. Han actually took a half-step back. Even Leia flinched, but only slightly. Luke’s soft, pleading words were lost under Vader’ onslaught: “Stole you-- _flaunted_ you-- I should have _wrung his neck_ \--“  

                “Is that what you think I am? Something to be flaunted? A _toy_?” Leia asked, her fury more than matching Vader’s. He stopped his tirade, looking down at her warily. Leia continued, softer, more dangerous: “Is that what you thought of my mother?”

                Vader’s face went a stark, deathly white. His eyes went wide, and Ben’s dark irises flooded with a sick, burning yellow.

                “Leia,” Han said, softly, but she wasn’t listening to him.

                “Was she your little plaything? Did you throw her away when you were done, when you couldn’t _flaunt_ her anymore--?”

                Vader actually pulled back his lip in a snarl. There was an ominous hum in the air, and the smell of ozone-- there were sparks crackling dangerously at Vader’s fingertips.

 _Since when can he do that?_ Han thought, dazedly. He didn’t know whether he meant Vader or Ben. Vader took another step towards Leia, and at the sight of the arcing electricity Chewie raised his weapon. Han pushed it down, not even thinking—he knew it wasn’t Ben, knew he could hurt Leia, but he’d die before he let Chewie shoot his son—o r even just a thing that looked like his son.

_You got soft, Solo._

                Luke actually threw himself between Vader and Leia, arm stretched wide. “Stop this now!” He commanded, his voice filled with a conviction Han had never heard before. Vader turned to him, and Luke put his hands against Vader’s chest, shoving him backwards. Vader stumbled, and the shock seemed to be enough to snap him out of his-- whatever that was. He stared down at Ben’s hands for a moment, like even he didn’t know what just happened. They all watched him for a long moment as he stood there, shaking and taking long, shuddering breaths.

                “We’re all going to take this very slowly,” Luke went on, much softer. He turned, fixing Leia with a meaningful stare. “ _All_ of us.” She looked away, with an angry snort, but didn’t challenge him.

                Vader was looking over Luke’s shoulder at Leia again, his eyes no longer yellow but still hard to meet. “How long have you known?” he asked, suddenly.

                “Known what?”

                “About your-- _parentage_.” Vader could be civil if he wanted to, it looked like. Leia wrapped her arms around herself, just above her stomach, and didn’t answer.

                “She didn’t know,” Luke answered, quickly. “Not until-- after Bespin. We didn’t know we were twins.”

                Vader looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but Chewie cut in, growling furiously.

                “Chewie’s right,” Han said, “we can talk about this later. If you’re—“ he stopped, then gestured to Vader, “— _here_ , then where’s _Ben?_ ”

                “Is he in there?” Leia asked, quietly. The anger drained out of her as quickly as it had come. She looked up into Vader’s face, studying it, her expression weary. “Can he hear me?”

                Vader looked at Leia with another one of those expressions that made Han feel uncomfortable—he kept waiting for the trick, for Vader’s mask to slip, but it didn’t. 

It had to be an act.

 Vader shook his head slowly—almost like he was genuinely sorry. “I sense no other presence.”

                “You wouldn’t though, would you?” Luke asked. He was looking at Vader strangely. “It makes sense, in a way. The Force has to right itself.”

                Vader’s nose wrinkled in mild annoyance. Han felt uneasy with how strongly he shared the sentiment.

                “You speak of the Balance,” Vader said, folding his arms across his chest. Luke nodded.

                “Every action taken has a consequence.” 

                “I took no _action_ —“

                “Can someone please clue the rest of us in here?” Han interrupted. Leia put a hand on his arm, holding him back.

“Luke, what are you saying?” She pressed.

                “If you came forward…” Luke started looking at Vader, his thoughts churning, “and you’re _here_ , in Ben’s body….and you left behind a vacuum when you came—“

                Leia seemed to get it. Her eyes widened in horror.

                “Then Ben—“ She choked out, but couldn’t finished. The realization came to Han like a bracing shock of cold water. No—no, not _this_. He’d joked about it, ever since the kid had started asking questions about his grandfather, and now he wished as hard as he could that he could take every single one of those jokes back—he never wanted—he hadn’t _meant_ it like—

                “He’s gone back?” Han asked, dumbly, but with a sinking feeling of horror. “He’s _Vader_?”

                Chewie moaned. Vader’s eyes went wide with shock, then narrowed in fury.

                “He’s taken the fleet!” he bellowed.

* * *

 

                Kylo felt his cheeks burn with humiliation as he was frog-marched into the strange round chamber and forced to sit in the chair. How could everything have gone so wrong so _fast_ —

                He landed with a _thump_ that rattled him, and he bit down hard to keep from wincing. His back _hurt_ , somewhere just before the small—it was stiff and loathe to bend, like grandfather really did have a steel rod for a spine. He made a mental note to go down easier next time.

                If there was a next time.

                “I don’t know what purpose you think this will serve,” he said aloud, racing to find a way out of this. “You can’t prove anything. No one knows what Vader’s face looks like.”

                “That, rebel scum, is where you are _wrong_ ,” Kylo could feel the pride and self-satisfaction radiating from his captor, and he _hated_ it. “Lord Vader has taken me into his confidence. I am privy to more of his private life than anyone else in the Galaxy.”

                Kylo bit down hard on his tongue. Firmus Piett—he remembered reading the man’s name on the manifest of the Executor, years ago, scouring the ship for any clues as to his grandfather’s time aboard his flagship. He’d served alongside Vader longer than any admiral—and survived an impressive number of his colleagues.

                Of all the officers in the Imperial Navy, he had to run into the one who could have found him out.

                Piett had finished fiddling with the controls, and Kylo felt something latch with the top of his helmet. He flinched, but couldn’t move—his was held into place. In the very periphery of his vision, he could see two smaller droid arms working away—

                Working to unmask him—

                “You need to reconsider this,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. “You—“ the vocoder shut off, and his words were now too muffled by his helmet to be heard.

                “Let’s take a look at you,” Piett said, his clipped tons thick with smugness.

Kylo felt a cool rush of air against his face. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, he would have welcomed it. It was strange to think that he’d spent such a short time in the helmet, and he was already glad for a reprieve. He shut his eyes, preparing for the change from red-washed HUD to light—

Opened them again and, squinted, blinking and waiting for his vision to clear.

It didn’t.

Piett didn’t gasp, exactly, but his short, surprised breath was enough to give him away. “But—“ he stammered, “but you—you aren’t Lord Vader. You aren’t. He would have killed me—“

“I still might,” Kylo groused, but the words were much less intimidating without the aid of his vocoder. They were just barely audible, his voice thin and whispery.

 _Grandfather sounds like that_?

Of course he did! Kylo pushed the childish thought aside. It didn’t _change_ anything.

                “You can’t be a clone,” Piett was saying. Kylo could feel his mind racing, near hysterically, but to the man’s credit his voice remained steady. “You can’t have the same _injuries_.”

                As much as he disliked him, Kylo could see why Vader kept a man like Piett around. Perhaps he could use that kind of ally on his quest—one both competent and nearly as loyal to his grandfather’s cause as he was.

                “What do you know of the Force?”

                Piett seemed taken aback—it was hard for Kylo to tell. The man was a pale grey and flesh blur to him. “I have seen it,” he said, suspiciously. “Or rather, I have seen Lord Vader’s command of it.”

                Kylo nodded. “The Force permeates all things,” he said. “It flows through living beings—inorganic matter—across the Galaxy—“ he looked up into the blur of Piett’s face and finished: “through time itself.”

                “What are you saying?” Piett snapped.

                “You were right, I’m not Vader—I’m here—I’ve been sent here to right a great wrong, one that has severe repercussions… on his future.”

                Kylo couldn’t see it, but he had the distinct impression Piett was raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

                “Is that so?” he drawled. Kylo bristled.

                “It is! Only I could do this—“ he decided to lay his cards on the table. “—because I am his heir.”

                “His heir?” Piett asked, faintly.

                “Yes,” Kylo raised his chin, proudly. “I am Vader’s _grandson_.”

                There was a moment of stunned silence. Kylo waited for Piett’s response, anxiously—he tried to take a steadying breath but _couldn’t_ ; even with the mask off, the air wouldn’t come to him.

                “You’re a madman, whoever you are,” Piett finally replied, faintly. “You’re out of your mind. That’s impossible.”

                “You said you had seen the Force—“

                “Lord Vader has no _children_ ,” Piett interrupted him, scoffing.

                Kylo titled his head. Now it was his turn to be smug: “You are chasing a rebel by the name of Luke Skywalker, are you not?”

                “What does Skywalker have to do with anything?” Piett snapped. Kylo said nothing, waiting. He heard a sharp intake of breath—his grandfather’s man was no fool.

                “You can’t be serious! The _boy_ who destroyed the Death Star—no. That’s preposterous. That’s – we’ve been hunting him for _years_. Every man and woman in the Navy from Moff to cadet has been mobilized. He—“ Piett stopped short. Kylo could feel the gears of his mind slowly turning, the new information giving way beneath them.

                “His capture is our number one priority. Lord Vader thinks of nothing else, day and night,” he said, in a horrified whisper. “He never rests—“ His thoughts were loud enough that Kylo didn’t even have to peer into his mind to see the stream of memories  flickering past, one after another—a parade of close calls and near misses, Vader’s mounting fury, his fanatical desperation to catch this one, elusive rebel—

There was a moment of silence, stretching between them. “Mother of moons,” Piett whispered, almost reverently.

“Now you know the truth,” Kylo said.

“You have a— _plausible_ theory,” Piett replied, eyes narrowing. “Say that Skywalker _is_ Lord Vader’s son—somehow. Then that makes you Skywalker’s yet-unborn son, I presume?”

Kylo squirmed. “Not—quite.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Oh?” Kylo hated how Piett could sound so superior with just one word, “I suppose Skywalker has a secret identical twin hidden away somewhere?”

Kylo couldn’t quite look at Piett. “A fraternal twin,” he muttered. “A sister.”

 “I assume she’s with the rebels as well.”

“Her identity is not important—“

“Oh, I think it is very important. Who _is_ this mysterious sister of Skywalker that no one’s ever heard of?”  

“You’ve heard of Leia Organa!” Kylo snapped, then immediately regretted it.

“Alderaan’s rebel princess?” Piett nearly yelped. “Lord Vader’s _daughter_?! That is beyond absurd!”

“It’s true!” Kylo fought to keep the note of desperation out of his voice. “I can prove its true!”

But Piett was shaking his head, ruefully. “I shouldn’t have been taken in by this—however you’ve accomplished your disguise, it won’t work. I won’t fall for your—“

“You have to believe me,” Kylo wasn’t pleading. He was reasoning. “I’m the only one who can keep you from losing to the rebels.”

Piett scoffed at that. “I think it’s more like that you’re a rebel yourself. Or perhaps you _are_ some mad clone of Lord Vader, broken and deluded by what they did to you to make you—“

“No!” The durasteel shell of the meditation chamber was inches thick, but it began to vibrate ominously. The lights flickered, and Piett’s hand went to his blaster once again.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—Kylo managed to reel himself back in. “The Empire is headed towards disaster,” he said, carefully. “You—my grandfather—everything you‘ve worked for could vanish in a single moment.”  

Piett’s mind was strong—protected by sheer walls, impenetrable to Kylo’s fumbling mental probes. Even now, he couldn’t barge his way in, impose his will on the man. But there was, for the briefest second, a moment of doubt—a sliver of anxiety at the thought of a crumbling Empire and the return of chaos—

\--A crack that Kylo could worm his way into, relay the truth of his words.

“How?” Piett asked. “How can that be?”

“Skywalker,” Kylo replied, simply. “Vader is not…altogether _rational_ when it comes to him. Luke Skywalker will use that against him.”

“Lord Vader would never betray the Empire!” snapped, hotly. “He has devoted his entire life to—“

“A momentary lapse,” Kylo said, severely. “But that’s all it will take.”

Piett wavered. “His service or his son,” he murmured, half to himself. “Not just a son—twins. It’s…it’s not a choice I envy.”

“We can ensure he makes the right one,” Kylo said. “If you help me, you can save your commander from himself.”

Piett’s suspicion eased, replaced by skepticism. “How do you propose we do that?”

Kylo tilted his head back, smiling, heedless of the way it pulled the scars on his face. “I know where to find them—Skywlaker and Organa both,” he said. “We’ll show them the truth the way grandfather could not.”

“You want Skywalker and Organa to defect?” Piett asked, his voice heavy with uncertainty.

“No,” Kylo looked up at Piett, eyes bright with conviction. “I want them to _turn_.”  


	3. Chapter 3

Han could admit that today had probably been just as hard on Vader as it was on him—not only was Vader dead, he had a daughter and _she_ had a son. That was enough to rattle anyone, even Emperor’s Murderer in Chief. Even so, Han still couldn’t quite believe the exchange he was witnessing.

               “The Imperial Fleet is in the hands of a child!” Vader was sputtering. “You cannot expect me to—“

               “That child is your _grandson_ ,” Luke was saying, with a kind of calm that Han could only be jealous of.  “And I don’t know what you expect us to do about it, to be honest. We don’t know how you got _here_ , or how he got _there_. It’s not as though we could just send you back!”

               Leia opened her mouth, like she was going to reply _and Force knows we would if we could_ , but stopped herself short. Han felt something heavy drop into his gut as he imagined what she was thinking right now—the choice between keeping her crazy, murderous biological father trapped in the present so he couldn’t get around to killing all the people she cared about, or having their son back with them—

               It didn’t seem fair.

               Vader’s (or Ben’s—Han was going to get a headache from all of this) nostrils flared as he took in a long, slow breath. It was probably supposed to calm him down, but didn’t seem all that effective.

               “What would you have me do?” he asked.

               “We need to know what you know,” Luke said, “but we can’t stay here. We’ll take you on the Falcon—“

               “Now, wait just a minute—“ Han started, but Leia laid a hand on his arm.

               “Han,” she said, quietly. “It’s for Ben,” she turned to Vader, any quiet pleading gone from her expression.

               “If you try anything— _anything_ — to sabotage us, I will take you down.”  

               Vader opened his mouth, like he was about to snap at her, but paused, remembering the earth-shattering revelation—Leia was his daughter, sister to the son he’d hunted obsessively for years, tearing the Galaxy apart— and he paused.

               “I am no saboteur,” he muttered, sullenly.

               “Then let’s get a move on,” Luke said, with an air of impatience. “We don’t know if the First Order was tracking you—tracking Ben—when you left. It’s not wise to stay in one place for too long.

               “Very well. A moment—“ Vader turned back up the ramp, walking with a calm purpose, but Han couldn’t stop the frantic thought that he was going to fly away, taking his precious vessel with him and leaving Ben stranded in the past as a monster forever—

               But true to his word Vader reappeared as suddenly as he’d gone, carrying a twisted hunk of metal under his arm. Luke’s breath caught in his throat.

               “Is that— but it can’t be—!”

               “I do not care for it either,” Vader said, with a strained edge to his voice. Han’s stomach twisted as he caught a look at the warped, melted metal of Vader’s old helmet---

               _Oh, Ben_ — he thought, his heart sinking. _Just what do you think you’re doing?_

* * *

 

               “Lord Vader doesn’t walk like that.”

               Kylo stopped mid-pace, feeling his frustration simmer closer to actual fury.  “ _What_ did you say?”

               Piett shrugged. “He doesn’t. You’re hoping to impersonate him, aren’t you?”

               Kylo took a moment, letting the air cycle in and out of his lungs. He couldn’t kill his only ally in this time.

               Not yet, at least.

               “What am I doing—incorrectly?” he managed, through gritted teeth. Most of the nuance in his words was lost in grandfather’s vocoder, but it conveyed his anger quite nicely, at least.

               Piett stood, taking a moment to crack his neck (a move Kylo found he deeply envied) before leaving his holo terminal and standing uncomfortably close.

               “Well, Lord Vader doesn’t pace, for one thing—when you’re out there, on the bridge, you’ll have to be totally still—unmovable, like a mountain. Let your men come to you.”

               Kylo tilted his head. The command was at once obnoxious and—sensible.

               “There is no one here to see.”

               Piett fixed him with a distinctly insubordinate look. “Practice makes perfect. You’ll have to live it if you ever want anyone to believe _you_ are Lord Vader.”

               “Why wouldn’t they?” Kylo snapped.

               “If I saw through you in a moment, others will too, given time. You may be wearing his suit and—everything else, but you hardly have his _bearing_.”

               His grandfather’s lightsaber was in hand in an instant. Somewhere, outside the fog of his anger, Kylo marveled at how well it fit his hand—well, this hand—and how it felt in his grasp, strong and powerful but not feral— _his_ lightsaber wanted to bite and take, to tear and rip, whereas grandfather’s—

               Piett coughed, lightly. “Do you see what I mean?” he said, fixing Kylo with a level stare. “Lord Vader never draws his lightsaber except in combat. If you truly wished to end me for my impertinence, as he might, you would use your mind powers to crush my throat and strangle the life out of me.”

               Kylo stared, uncertain he believed what he was hearing. Piett briefly glanced down at the tip of the lightsaber, the weapon casting a lethal red glow across his face, before his eyes flicked back up to Kylo’s, unimpressed.

               “I did not become Lord Vader’s admiral by being a stupid man—or easily cowed.” He said, drily.

               Kylo extinguished the lightsaber, clipping it back to his belt with a sharp motion. Too sharp—he hissed, clutching his arm.

               “What is it?” Piett took another step forward, perilously close. “Have you done something to Lord Vader’s—?”

               “It is nothing—“ Kylo said, trying to wave dismissively. He rubbed his bicep, feeling the sharp transition between flesh and durasteel. “This prosthetic has been fitted poorly. I will see to the droid who fitted it—“

               Piett eyed him, carefully. “Lord Vader’s last scheduled maintenance was eight weeks ago.”

               Kylo rubbed his arm in small circles with his thumb, allowing the burning sensation to dissipate into the Force. “Then perhaps he is due for another,” he grated.

               They were interrupted by a beeping from the holoterminal. Piett leaned over the console, eyes widening.

               “Your predictions were correct. The probe is reporting sightings of a ship matching the Falcon’s description in the Mos Espa spaceport.”

               Kylo smiled, grimly. “Of course I’m correct. Summon my ship—we make for Skywalker and the rebels as soon as we are cleared for departure.”

* * *

 

               “Here,” Luke said, “let me take that.”

               He held out his hands, expectantly, and Vader gingerly placed the melted remains of his helmet in Luke’s grasp. He repressed a shudder as he accidentally locked eyes with the fathomless empty sockets of his former visage. Leia also glanced at the helmet, but with only mild interest.

               “Is that what did it?” she asked, her voice hard. No one had to ask what she was referring to. Luke shrugged.

               “It could be. I’m not sure—I never came across anything in my studies that would suggest the belongings of a powerful Force user could become artifacts in their own right. Much of the old Jedi Order’s teachings were lost when—“ he looked sideways at Vader.

               “When they were purged,” Vader finished for him, coldly. Luke flinched.

               “You didn’t get all of them,” Leia cut in. “You didn’t get Obi-Wan Kenobi, or Yoda, and they taught Luke everything they knew—“

               “Unlikely,” Vader interrupted her. He knew he shouldn’t rise to her bait—but as with his every trap, his first instinct was to spring it. “The masters of old were jealous of their knowledge.” Even now, he was unable to keep the bitterness from his words.

               “Can’t say I would have told you much of anything either,” he heard Solo mutter, but elected to ignore it.

               “It doesn’t matter,” Leia went on, “because everything you built is _gone_. You couldn’t destroy the Jedi, but they destroyed your Empire.”

               “Leia,” Luke said, reaching a hand out to her arm, but she shrugged him off.

               “It’s all gone,” she said, almost gloating. “The Emperor, the Moffs, the Navy, _you_ —all of it, washed away like so much driftwood.”

               The thought made Vader stop. He had reached for the Emperor, yes, and found nothing—his all-encompassing presence, the dark heart that pulsed at the center of the new Galaxy, was silent and still. The thought had been shocking to him, but it was a possibility he had been preparing himself for, slowly but surely, as treasonous thoughts of his son ascending the throne has crossed him mind. The prospect of meeting Luke himself, as well as his—change of circumstance—had driven the emptiness from his mind.

               All of it…

               The thought seemed incredible to him. The Empire spanned the Galaxy, from former Coruscant it radiated out to the edges of the Unknown Reaches. The Outer Rim was coming within their grasp, slowly but surely—or it would, it would have, if only he—

               All of it gone.

               “I awoke on a base,” he said, “there were stormtroopers…” but he didn’t need Leia’s cutting words to tell him he was floundering.

               “The First Order has nothing of Palpatine’s Empire,” she sneered, “other than wearing their trappings.”

               And he could sense the truth of her words in the Force. He thought he should feel something, at least, but instead found a curious numbness had settled over his thoughts. It was a relief, in some ways—the revelations of the day, his work destroyed but his children found, circled his head but could find no purchase on his racing thoughts.

               Leia opened her mouth, as if she had more to say, but the Falcon’s communications began to chime incessantly.

               “That will be the General’s Council,” she said. “They’ll want to know why I abandoned the meeting—“

               “You’ll have to tell them something other than the truth,” Luke said, and Leia fixed him with a unimpressed look.

               “Obviously,” she replied, “but I told them you’d made contact—it’s been years, Luke. They’ll want you there as well.”  

               Luke looked at Vader, his eyes full of concern. “I need to speak to the Resistance—it shouldn’t take long. Can you—?”

               Vader nodded. He could wait.

               He had nothing else to occupy his attention.

* * *

 

Han was watching Vader.

               He’d appointed himself to this particular mission—Luke and Leia were at the helm, firing off holos in between sniping over what they were going to do next—Han figured he’d keep an eye on their resident dictator. The Falcon had suffered enough indignity in her time without getting bloody dictator fingerprints all over it. So when Vader slipped out of the cockpit, Han decided he could go for a little stroll as well.

               “It would be unwise to make a move against me,” Vader said after a few minutes, without turning around to acknowledge him. “My son values your life—but I assure you, _I_ do not.”

               “I’d like to think your daughter does,” Han said, perhaps a little more nastily than he really needed to. It was almost worth it to see Vader flinch—almost, except for the though in the back of his head that Leia would skin him alive for turning the worst revelation of her life into a cheap jab.

               Even if it was to get one over on Vader.

               “Your grandson, too.” That one Han was less and less sure about these days. “You can knock it off, you know—there’s no Imps here for you to act out for. It’s just you and me, and guess what? We’re family now, Darth.”

               Vader scoffed. “Hardly,” he said, actually turning around. “My daughter and my--my _grandson_ are _mine_. You are superfluous.”

               Han let out a low whistle. “Leia doesn’t belong to you, first off. She better not catch you talking that way, or she’ll fire you out the airlock like she’s wanted to her whole life.”

               Vader’s eyes glittered with barely contained malice, but he said nothing.

               “Secondly, just how did it go over when _you_ told the in-laws that? Or,” Han said, mock-thoughtfully, “did Amidala never get a chance to bring you around to meet the folks? I can see why, I can’t say I’d be—“

               Han stopped, reaching instinctively for his throat—but finding no traction on the invisible fist closing in on his trachea.

               “ _What_ did you say?” Vader asked, menacingly. Ben’s eyes were yellow, and his face twisted—it was an expression Han hated, hated to think that Ben would ever be capable of making—

               “Let--- me--- go—“ he wheezed. “Leia—won’t—forgive—you—“

               It was the right card to play. The invisible hand went slack and Han doubled over, gasping for air.

               “If you _ever_ utter her name,” Vader said, his voice low and strained, “I will risk my daughter’s wrath to see that you never speak _again_. Do you understand?”

               “Yeah, yeah,” Han wheezed. He straightened, rubbing his throat. “Bad breakup, huh? Doesn’t surprise me.”

               Vader’s fist clenched. “Leave me, Solo,” he said, still not quite meeting Han’s eyes. “Or I will—“

               “You’ll what? Snap my neck? Strangle me?” Han shrugged. “Sure, you probably will. But here’s the thing—I’ve only got about five people in this Galaxy that I’m ready to die for, you’re _wearing_ one of them.” Vader wrinkled his nose at Han’s turn of phrase, but he pressed on. “That’s my boy you’re driving around, and until things are put back the way they were, you’re going to be seeing a lot of me. I don’t care if you like it or not, that’s the way it is. Do you get me?”

               Vader looked down on him—it was easy, from Ben’s height—and tilted his head, sneering. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel, sweeping down the hall once again.

               “You have terrible manners, you know that, Darth?” Han said, trotting to keep up with him. “In polite society, that’s _not_ how we end a conversation—“

               “I do not understand why your obligation to my grandson means you must _chatter_ ,” Vader interrupted, sharply. “Do you ever stop, or are you simply incapable—?”

               Vader stopped short, abruptly, coming to a sudden halt. Han had to scramble to keep from slamming into the back of him.

               “What? Do you—“ Han had to stop himself short from asking _do you sense something?_ He’d officially been spending way too much time with his crazy Jedi brother-in-law. Some of the crazy was starting to rub off on him.

               Vader didn’t answer. He was staring in the fresher, one hand half-reaching for his lightsaber.

               “Who—“ he began, then stopped. Vader saw his eyes widen—for a fraction of a second, Darth Vader actually looked _surprised_. He walked into the fresher, standing before the mirror and staring into it, as though he’d never seen one before—

               _Oh._ Han shut his mouth with a snap. Oh. Did Vader really not—was he not at all curious about—he woke up in another body and just—?

               Yeah, actually, that sounded about par for the course for his father-in-law. Han watched silently as Vader stood short of the mirror, staring at it, almost warily. It took real effort not to crack a joke—but in some ways, he didn’t quite have the heart.

               “That’s Ben,” Han said, quietly. Vader glanced sideways, studying him, before turning his attention back to the mirror.

               “He favors you,” he said, and Han couldn’t quite stop himself from laughing at the petulant scowl behind the words.

               “Yeah, well. He is _my_ kid,” he said, equal parts pride and gloating. Vader ignored him, leaning in close to the mirror, nearly touching it with the tip of his nose. He turned, sideways, studying the high angle of his ( _Ben’s_ , Han reminded himself firmly) cheekbone, the arch of his eyebrow, raising a hand to brush his fingertips across his lips—

               Then starting back, as if the touch shocked him. Vader tried to disguise the motion, reaching up to run his fingers through hair, but that made him flinch as well. Han said nothing—he didn’t really want to think about what he was seeing, as Vader tried to lay a hand against his face without becoming overwhelmed.

               Luke had confided in him about what had happened on the Second Death Star. Leia had told both of them firmly that she didn’t want to hear it, and it would be years before she relented and learned anything other than the bare bones of what happened. But Luke had told him, about a year Endor, unable to keep the memories locked away within himself any longer. Han watched Vader now, and he thought about the sad old man Luke had described—covered in scars, who-knew-how-many-severed limbs, who didn’t even _breathe_ on his own—

               _You’re just loving this, aren’t you_ , he thought, angrily. For once he thought he understood that since of burning indignation, of anger and injustice motivated his wife. _You get to play around being twenty-something again while Ben_ —

               “It is the will of the Force that I be brought here, Solo,” Vader said, startling Han out of his thoughts. “I assure you, I did not ask to be— _transported_.”

               Han met Vader’s stare, defiantly. “Thought you were too busy admiring yourself to read my mind.”

               “Your thoughts betray you. It is not my fault you shout every idea that sparks between your temples,” Vader shrugged. His expression changed—not quite softening, but no longer arrogant—and he looked down at his hand, flexing it, curling it into a fist.

               “Is he strong, Solo?” Vader asked, quietly. The question caught Han off-guard.

               “What?”

               “Your son,” Vader asked again, impatiently. “Is he strong?”

               Han shrugged. “What, do you mean—with the Force? Probably. Luke says so.” Vader continued to stare at him, unblinking.

               “That is not what I meant.”

               Han took a deep breath, trying to stem the flood of memories. He raised his chin, looking Vader squarely in the eye.

               “Yeah,” he said, defiantly. “He is.”

               Vader seemed to consider this for half a second, then nodded in approval. “Good. Then he will survive finding himself—“ he hovered, almost awkwardly for a moment, “— _diminished_.”

               Something about the way Vader said it made Han wince.

               “Well,” he said, unable to stand the silence that followed. “That’s—good. That’s good. We’ll get him back in one piece.”

               “Yes,” Vader agreed. It occurred to Han just how awkward this situation actually was—here he was, having a heart-to-heart with Darth Vader, in the ‘fresher with the broken shower on the ship they’d used to outrun him for more than three years—

               “Ben needs a haircut,” Han blurted out, unable to stand the silence any longer but unsure of what else to say.

               Vader furrowed his brow, confused by the direction this conversation had taken. He took it as his cue to leave and swept out of the tiny room, leaving Han alone with his thoughts.

* * *

 

               “But you can’t just _leave_!” Jerjerrod was saying, with an edge of desperation in his voice. “Plans are being put into motion! You are needed here until—“

               “I do not believe _I_ am needed here, Sir,” Piett was saying. Kylo sensed a glimmer of smug satisfaction from him—he was clearly relishing the chance to challenge a Moff so directly. “My place is with Lord Vader, and given that Lord Vader is leaving—“

               Jerjerrod glanced fearfully over Piett’s shoulder. Kylo did not answer, instead simply folding his arms across his chest, as he’d been instructed. The effect was instantons—the blood seemed to drain from the Moff’s face, and he swallowed fearfully.

               “The Emperor—“ he started, uneasily.

               “—Is well aware of our mission,” Kylo boomed, unable to tamper his impatience any longer. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

               “Yes—yes, of course,” Jerrjerrod replied, panicked and placating. “I only mean—“

               “I take your meaning,” Kylo interrupted, menacingly. Piett shot him a look over his shoulder.

               “The Emperor is well aware of our mission,” Piett said, “and we are expected to return well before any harm can come to your time-table. Unless you insist on holding us any longer with this ridiculous questioning--?”

               “It’s just—“ Jerjerrod’s eyes darted back and forth, lingering on Kylo’s (Vader’s) mask just a second too long. “It’s very unusual for Lord Vader to take an admiral of the fleet instead of troopers with him.”

               “Who are you to question Lord Vader’s judgement?” Kylo snapped, jabbing a finger in Jerjerrod’s chest. “Who are you to question the will of the Force?”

“Milord, I meant no—“

 “I have heard enough of this. Come, Piett.” Kylo turned on his heel. “We leave immediately.” He stopped and turned, allowing his disgust to be heard clearly in the Force: “And make no mistake: upon my return, we will have words, _Moff_.”

               Jerjerrod’s eyes flashed, but Piett hissed “that’s quite enough” under his breath, giving an almost invisible tug on Kylo’s elbow—he barely suppressed a wince as the touch jostled his arm, causing the faulty connection with the prosthetic to throb.

               “We will be in contact about our expected arrival,” Piett called over his shoulder, and the landing ramp to the shuttle slid shut.

* * *

 

               Vader paused for a moment in the doorway to the cockpit. He seemed to have made a full loop of the miserable little ship that had thwarted him again and again over the past three years, and found it wholly unremarkable— save for its passengers.

His son was right where he had left him, though the holocomm had fallen silent. He sat in the copilot’s chair, a hand pressed to his temple, his eyes shut. The years had etched lines on his face, greyed his hair, but some greater force than time that had aged him. Vader briefly remembered Obi-Wan Kenobi as he had appeared on the Death Star, weathered like a stone subjected to a thousand years of ocean waves, but his mind skittered from those memories. They were strange, uncomfortable, confusing.

His son, on the other hand, was a pleasure to behold. Vader cloaked his presence in the Force, relishing the opportunity to truly study him for the first time without the hindrance of his mask. His hair had been light, just as his had been, but there was a delicacy to his features and a strength in his bearing that could only be Padme. He was _their_ son.

Luke opened his eyes, and Vader felt an eerie echo of something he thought had died within him a long time ago.

“Be—Father,” Luke corrected himself, smiling wearily. “You startled me.”

“It was not my intention,” Vader replied—as close to an apology as he would ever come.

               “No, no, it’s nothing—it’s just strange, seeing Ben here—especially when it’s not actually him.” He smiled again, and Vader found he was irritated by the sadness behind it. It wasn’t _right_.

               “ ‘Strange’ is perhaps inadequate,” Vader shrugged, “given the complexity of our present situation. I find you much changed as well.”

Luke quirked an eyebrow. “For the worse, I imagine.”

“No,” Vader answered, severely. He had waited twenty years for this, traveled still more through time itself for their meeting. His hands itched to reach out, to grasp his son and pull him in close—

               But for now, he resisted the urge.

               Luke favored him with a real smile. “That’s kind of you,” he said, with an air of teasing. “I know I’m the worse for wear.” He stood, closing the distance between the two of them. He looked up—Padme’s strength in bearing seemed to have accompanied her slight stature—and placed a hand on Vader’s shoulder.

               “I missed you,” he said, quietly, and Vader could resist no more. He grabbed Luke around the chest, perhaps more forcefully that was necessary, enveloping him in a crushing embrace. He used one hand to press Luke’s face into his shoulder, marveling at the warmth radiating from his son’s body—the feeling of Luke’s hair beneath his fingers—how he could feel the tension leave Luke’s body as surprise and instinct receded— the way his chest vibrated as he uttered one single, reverent word:

               “Father”—

               It was overwhelming, but Vader found he couldn’t release the boy. “ _My_ son,” he said, low and muffled against the top of Luke’s head. “ _Mine_ —“            

               They stood there for a long moment, Vader clutching Luke to him as though he’d vanish from his grasp, just as he had so many times before. _Mine, mine, mine_ , he thought, triumphantly, _mine_ —

               _Father_ , Vader caught a hint of the swirling emotions behind the word, a flood that threatened to break through the dam of the boy’s Jedi reserve and swamp the of them. _Someone is coming_.

               Vader released Luke slowly—with utmost reluctance—reaching up with his other hand to cup the boy’s face in his hands.

               “For three years I have longed to see you this way,” he said, quietly. “I would have burned the Galaxy to see you only once—with my own eyes.”

               Luke closed his eyes, briefly, accepting the weight of Vader’s admission. “You did get the chance,” Luke told him, quietly. “Before—”

               “Before you died,” came Leia’s voice behind them, cutting through the warmth of the cockpit. Vader turned. She stood in the doorway, her arms folded across his chest, her chin tilted upward, her hair loosened from its battle-ready style from earlier and falling around her face in soft, greying waves—

               Vader’s breath caught in his throat. How could he not have known? How could he not have _seen_ —

               “That’s right,” Leia said, misinterpreting the source of his unease—he was already well aware of his supposed demise. “We’ve been free of you for twenty-three years now, and if I had my way we’d be free of you again—“

               “Leia—“ Luke said, wearily, “Please. Not this again.”

               “He should know,” Leia spat. “There’s no need to coddle him.”

               Vader thought, rather distantly, that until recently the news of his impending death might have prompted a feeling perilously close to _relief_. Rather than ten thousand years, it seemed his servitude to the Empire would not even last thirty. It was a cold comfort, but a comfort all the same.

               And yet—

               The existence of his son—to say nothing of his _daughter_!—complicated things. He wanted to—it was here that his feeling became muddled, unclear, uncomfortable in their lack of clarity or focus—to see them, hold them, to know they were well—

               Only one moment with his son before his demise. It seemed unfair, given the price he paid for the boy’s life.

               But Vader knew better than most that bringing balance in the Force did not always bring _fairness_.

               “I sent Chewie off in the shuttle to report back to the Resistance,” Leia said, interrupting his thoughts. “They’ll see if they can get anything on Ben from the databanks, then strip the ship and use it for parts.” She looked directly at Vader as she said it, as though hoping her words would goad him. He distantly found it foolish, as he cared nothing for these _pretenders_ , but he felt, through the fog of his lingering shock over the revelation of her paternity, a kind of— _grief_.

               _She loathes me._ It had been true for over a decade now, of course, their mutual animosity only increasing as Organa—as _Leia_ took the helm of the Rebel Alliance over the smoldering ruins of Alderaan. But now—Vader could see that their placement on opposite sides of the stupid, futile war had been a scheme to rival one of his master’s, carried out by Obi-Wan and Bail Organa, perhaps in hopes that he would maim or kill his own flesh and blood--

               _You hardly needed their help_ a voice in the back of his head whispered.

               “That’s good,” Luke was saying. “Maybe we can use the ship for an infiltration mission, just like—“ he shot a strange, sideways glance a Vader, before continuing: “Just like Endor.”

               Leia snorted, but didn’t reply. Vader had the distinct impression he was missing something vital.

               “In any case, I’m not needed here,” she said, putting just a hair too much effort in her attempt to ignore his presence. “I’ll be in my quarters—“

               “Leia,” Luke cut her off, gently. “You can’t pretend like this isn’t happening. You can’t run from this—“

               “I’m not _running_ ,” she snapped, with fire in her eyes, and again Vader felt as though he were staring at a ghost.

               _Foolish_ , he thought to himself, bitterly, _I willfully blind_.

                “We have to debrief,” Luke said, firmly. “Father could help us strike a blow for the Resistance, or to say nothing of finding Ben—“

               Leia let out a dark laugh, devoid of any humor. “He doesn’t know anything,” she said. There was a kind of hollowness to her words, one Vader could not have imagined hearing from the steadfast and indomitable Princess he knew. She turned to Vader, eyeing him for the first time. “He said so as much. You want me to stand here—“ her voice wavered under the strain of some great emotion, but she pressed on, undeterred— “and look at—look at my son, possessed by—“ she wasn’t able to find words to describe exactly how loathsome she found Vader’s presence. “It’s worse than having Ben gone,” she finished, and Vader could feel the frayed edges of her despair. He and Luke were silent for a moment, out of respect for her grief.

               “Your son does not call himself Ben,” Vader said, after a moment. Luke looked at him, confused and somewhat mortified. Two angry spots of red colored Leia’s cheeks.

               “Excuse me?”

               “I believe he is known as— “ Vader thought back to his encounter with the general and the chrome trooper, “Kylo Ren?”

               “I know that!” Leia snapped at him. “You think I don’t know?”

               “What’s your point?” Luke asked, more gently.

 “It is not a Sith name,” Vader replied, simply. “Whoever holds your son’s allegiance is not a Sith.”

               Leia scoffed. “Is that supposed to comfort me?”

“It should,” he held up his hand a closed his fingers into a fist for emphasis: “as pretenders are easily _crushed_.” He took a step closer and Leia reflexively took a step back, eyeing him warily.

               “I offered my son the Galaxy. I would offer you the same, if I thought you would take it—“

               “You—!”

               “I can make you another promise,” Vader said, unable to keep a feverish edge from his voice. _I can make this right_. “I cannot bring you your son, but I can bring you the ones who lured him from your arms—” he unclipped his lightsaber from his belt, causing Luke and Leia to tense. He tossed it in the air, grasping the blade-end and offering the weapon to her, grip first.

               “—or just their heads, if you prefer.” he finished.

               Leia looked down at the weapon, then back up at him. He could see the emotions playing across her face as clearly as he could feel them in the Force—shock, disgust, anger, hatred—

               Greed—

               A thirst for vengeance—

               “You are _sick_ ,” Leia said, disgust evident in her voice. “If you think you can buy me off—offering yourself as a _mercenary_ —“

               “I pledge myself to your cause,” Vader said, “As I have none here. Wield me as you see fit.”

               Luke flinched at the words, but Leia said nothing. There was a moment of silence as Vader continued to offer the lightsaber. Finally, Leia reached out, pushing it back towards him.

               “You keep that _thing_ ,” she said. She took a step forward, her eyes never leaving Vader’s face. “I don’t want anything to do with it.” She studied him for a long moment, her better nature warring with her bloodlust.

               _She is more like me than she knows_.

               “I don’t want anything from you,” she said, finally, he voice cold. “Not a single thing. You should be in prison—you should be _dead_. But if you—if you decide to make yourself _useful_ —for Ben…” she glanced at Luke, who was stoic and unreadable as any Council Master of Anakin’s day— “then I…” she trailed off, then took a deep breath, steeling herself.

               “I won’t stop you.”

               Vader didn’t smile, but he felt something blaze within him, a warmth he hadn’t felt since Luke fell in Cloud City. “It will be done,” he said.

               Leia looked at him for a long moment, her mouth pressed together in a hard line. She nodded, once.

               “Fine. I’ll get Han. Let’s debrief.”

* * *

 

               “Why have you dropped out of hyperspace?” Kylo rumbled ominously. He was glad for the sureness of the vocoder, because he felt the icy hand of panic close gently around his throat. He had one ally in this time, for this sacred mission—and if he was betrayed now, before they had even begun—

               “Surely you didn’t think we were taking an Imperial shuttle to the Outer Rim?” Piett asked, turning from the controls. He raised an eyebrow in that maddening, self-assured way of his. “Every criminal and piece of sentient garbage would know we were coming from a hundred light-years out.”

               Oh. That did make sense. He knew that—he _should_ have known that. It wasn’t as though he’d ever traveled incognito before. _I am—_ muddled _by the change_ , he told himself. Thrown off-guard by their circumstances.

               It was difficult to think when he _hurt_ all the time—

               _No,_ Kylo thought to himself. _I must be disciplined, like the Sith of old. Grandfather mastered it, and I will as well._

“—so we’re traveling to an Imperial-friendly depot to pick up something a little more discreet,” Piett went on, “and, if I may be frank, a little more comfortable.” He paused, then turned, looking up into Kylo’s mask and frowning.

               “But I’m still not sure what you plan to do about Lord Vader’s…” Piett raised a hand and gestured in a circular motion, as if to encompass all of the armor and Kylo’s newly-gained bulk in one.

               “What do you mean?” he asked, suspiciously. Piett sighed.

               “There is a reason Lord Vader was never chosen for stealth missions,” he said, as though speaking to a somewhat dim child. “He— _you_ are not terribly suited for the task, even if Lord Vader were not one of the most recognizable figures in the Galaxy.”

               The silence was broken by Kylo’s breath cycling in and out, as if to prove Piett’s point.

               “I know that,” Kylo snapped. “I have accounted for it in my plan.”

               Piett leaned back in his chair. “So you do have a plan?”

               “Of course I have a plan,” Kylo snapped. “Luke Skywalker and my—and the Princess are there to rescue Han Solo. We catch them in the act and capture all three.”

                 “All three?” Piett asked, curiously. “It seems more trouble than it’s worth to extract Han Solo. He can do no harm to the Empire as a piece of statuary for Jabba the Hutt—“                 

               “Solo is vital to the plan!” Kylo barked. Piett turned from the controls with an expression of naked interest.

               “Is he?”

               Kylo clenched his fist, feeling the leather creak under the strain. “He is dear to both the Princess and Skywalker. He will be instrumental in— _persuading_ them to turn. I do not expect one such as yourself, who is blind to the ways of the Force, to understand.”

               “Perhaps,” Piett said, with false mildness, “but we are entered in this conspiracy _together_ , young master Vader—if we are discovered, the consequences will be dire, acting in greater service to the Empire or not.”

               Piett certainly thought very highly of himself—perhaps even more highly than grandfather did. Kylo meant to chastise him for his impudence—

               “What did you call me?” he blurted out instead. Piett blinked, uncertain.

               “Ah—you are Lord Vader’s heir,” he said, uncertainly. “As the youngest of his house, does that—not make you the young master?”

               “I— yes,” Kylo said, quickly. “Of course it does.” He turned the window, looking out over the stars. He was Vader’s heir—he was worthy of Vader’s name. In this time, no one had ever heard of Kylo Ren—

               --nobody had ever heard of Ben Solo. No one knew. No one _needed_ to know. The shadow of his previous failures was _gone_.

               Kylo clenched his fist, and this time the stinging sensation that followed in his arm felt like victory.

               “If you have input on the plan, Admiral,” he declared, “I would be willing to consider it.”


End file.
